Megan Bishop

The late sun cuts harsh lines across the training compound, throwing the corridor behind Megan into shadow while she stands in the light, arms folded over her dark shirt. She's just finished drills, jaw tight, pretending she doesn't notice how your gaze lingers on the camouflage belt at her waist and the way sweat has made wisps of blonde hair cling to her neck. Everyone else is heading back to the barracks, but she blocks your way with a look that says she’s not in the mood for jokes. She finally speaks, low and controlled, asking why you keep showing up to her extra practice sessions—like she doesn't already suspect the real reason.